Requiem for the Night
by ignusphoenicis
Summary: In the heart of the middle ages, hunters Sam and Dean Winchester must fight to keep themselves alive and out of prison under the tyranny of King Michael Novak's rigid Catholic regime. But when their new Duke arrives, Dean finds himself involved in centuries-old conflicts that could ultimately lead to the rise or fall of an empire.
1. The Unwelcome

"Zachariah is dead."

"What?"

Sam, his huge form just a silhouette in the doorway against the late afternoon light, had returned. He stood in the entrance for a moment longer before shutting the wooden plank and stepping into the cottage. "Zachariah is dead."

Dean Winchester was at the table sharpening his sword against a stone, but he stopped upon hearing Sam's news. Half of his brother's face was cast in shadow, but Dean could see that Sam's expression was mixed, as if he were waiting to see how Dean would react.

Zachariah, the archdick Duke, who ruled over their duchy of Gildwich and made life for the kingdom basically hell, was dead. Sam and Dean lived just outside of the capital of Norham where Zachariah's castle loomed ominously over the village that he abused with his Catholic whip.

"When? How do you know?" Dean asked his brother, setting aside his sword. Word generally traveled slowly, but, as they lived so near the Duke and his castle, he supposed that it must have been not too long ago. The monsters had been extra cheeky these last few days, now that Dean thought on it. They had ganked a wraith just the night before, but the bastard had been so smug, and taunting the entire chase that it hadn't even seemed upset to die. Maybe they were all celebrating.

"Two or three days ago," said Sam, removing his satchel from over his shoulder and setting it on the table beside Dean's sword, the Colt. "The procession is going on in the square right now."

"Did you see him?"

"I caught a glimpse."

"And?"

Sam pressed his lips together and cocked a brow to the side, staring down at the table as if he knew he was feeling the wrong thing. "Vetala."

"I fucking knew it!" Dean slammed his fist down on the table, feelings of both frustration and vindication stewing through him. "Did I not tell the bastard last week that there was something on his ass?" He was such an idiot, Zachariah. Such a pompous, hypocritical idiot who deserved to be dead. So many times he had threatened Sam and Dean with this and that, lynching and hanging and burning at the stake. So often he had called them heathens, banishing them from the village borders until he needed something to be killed. Then he was their best friend, their ruler and their master demanding their services. Countless times Sam and Dean had gotten his castle clean, played exterminator for his nasty pests, which he had a pretty damn good habit of collecting.

"Can't say he didn't deserve it," Sam mumbled in agreement, moving from the table to light the lanterns placed about their shadowy cottage. Night was coming earlier and earlier nowadays, which meant that summer was drawing near an end. Meaning the first bout of cold would tear through the village soon and the body count would rise. Dean always hated winter, because each time he went into town he seemed to be fortunate enough to come across a cart full of dead kids and babies and old people, and even young people whose bodies weren't strong enough to handle the cold.

Not that they weren't used to dead bodies, anyway. Death seemed to follow the Winchesters wherever they went. Or, rather, they followed it. They were hunters, hunters of evil. They tracked and killed monsters, creatures, demons, and just about every other fucking nasty thing that reared its ugly head. Major townships were full of them, especially ones with castles nearby, because there seemed to be an ongoing competition among the bitches to try and murder as many powerful figures as they could; kings, princes, dukes, and all other royalty raking in the top prize of ultimate respect.

So Sam and Dean hunted them. Their father had hunted them, and his father had, and so had his. If anyone had bothered to keep a family record on some parchment somewhere, it was probably charred to crisps, so Dean didn't know how far back Winchester hunters went, but he could only assume forever, since the dragon days. The Winchester name had become infamous among the evil, and, with the rise of Christian governance over the last millennia, among the royalty as well, as their sacrilegious and pagan methods of killing did not bode well with the Good Book.

But they did what they had to, and Dean didn't know how anyone would fucking survive of it weren't for them. "Prick…" Dean mumbled, shaking his head as Sam illuminated the space with light. "Least he went out knowing I was right."

"I'm sure he did," Sam said in that way he did when Dean knew he was humoring him, but Dean chose to ignore it, standing up to go stoke the hearth in the center of the room to life so he could begin roasting the salted pork. "But at least he's not around to give us anymore trouble."

Dean sighed, running his hands through his hair before he skewered the pork on the spit and set it over the fire. It really was good that Zachariah finally bit it, because the fucker definitely deserved it, but it meant another rally among the beasts. Whenever they got someone, someone big at least, it seemed like their efforts and armies multiplied by two hundred and there were freaks to hunt every day. A few years back, a demon had taken Prince Raphael, the first heir to the throne of the entire kingdom, and Sam and Dean got zero sleep for almost three months, practically living in the shrubbery around the castle as they waited for yet another thing to try and sneak in. Zachariah hadn't been a particularly influential Duke, but he was a prince and bloodline of the Novak dynasty, so there was going to be a lot of cleanup to do.

"So who's the head dick in charge now?" Dean wondered out loud, looking to Sam as his brother pulled a loaf of bread from his satchel and began to portion it out with his knife. "Zach has no kids, he's too impotent and inbred."

"From what I heard, another brother fell next in line for the duchy," Sam said as he sliced. "A younger one."

"Aww Hell, the brothers are the worst," grumbled Dean. They were the very worst, so loyal to King Michael and unyielding in his tyrannical Catholicism. As far as the commoners were concerned, the Novaks had been on the throne forever, sliding their blood in duchies and positions of power all over the place, making it so they basically owned the world. It had taken centuries of marriages to ensure that a Novak sat on each throne, but they had done it, and now there were so many of them that the idea of overthrowing the family was little more than a wistful dream. The Catholic Church and the Novak dynasty could basically be considered the same institution, as every country in the world fell under Catholic rule, giving "pagans" like Sam and Dean no choice but to face the consequences of being a heretic.

Michael had been in power for a very long time, and it was under his reign that the Novaks secured the Royn Land to the West, enslaving the savages and forcing conversion among the free people. Now the only free territory were the Free Lands across the sea, where lived people and creatures that probably no one would ever see. Before he had died, John used to tell Dean that he would bring he and Sam to the Free Lands, where they would live as citizens of their own governance. Of course, Dean didn't believe that John would have ever left Norham and his duty as a hunter to go start a farm in the Free Lands, but sometimes it was nice to indulge the fantasy a bit.

"Can't be much worse than Zach," Sam pointed out, slicing up the last of the cheese before dividing it up between their clay plates. "Hopefully."

"Which brother?"

Sam shrugged, his face pensive. "I only talked to Ellen for a few minutes, and she didn't know much either," he said, bringing the plates to the hearth so Dean could place the pork. "There will be a town gathering before the gates when the new prince arrives, no work and yes, you and I are required to attend," he amended the second part, knowing that Dean would be upset.

Dean huffed. "So they kick us out to live a mile away, but expect us to pay their taxes and attend all their stupid meetings?" he said angrily, slopping the pork on the plates hastily, too hastily, as a good chunk fell onto the dirt floor. "Shit," he mumbled, sighing before he reached down to dust it off.

"We have to go, Dean," said Sam, frowning at the dirty piece of meat before taking it and setting it on Dean's plate, and then turning to place them on the table. "We don't know what'll be out there waiting to kill the new guy."

Dean almost laughed. "You really think something'll be so stupid as to try to kill a brand new Duke at his own coronation?"

"It's not like it's never happened before."

Dean sighed again, rubbing his face as he fell into his chair and picked at his dirty pork. A new Duke meant that he and Sam would have to "introduce" themselves all over again and explain what they did and who they were. No doubt they would be in the castle within a few days of his reign, chasing after something that was hungry for Novak blood. As awful as Zachariah had been, he had at least realized that he couldn't exactly have he and Sam executed, even if he threatened them with it almost daily, and Dean wasn't sure if the new one would figure it out until it was too late. He supposed they would find out in due time.

"Well, you know what this means," Dean said after a short silence, in which they shoveled stale bread and salty pork into their mouths.

Sam looked at Dean curiously for a moment until realization set over him, his face setting seriously. "Vetala."

Dean nodded, sticking the last piece of bread and cheese in his mouth and wiping his hands on his tunic. "They hunt in packs, don't they?"

"Yeah, packs of two," Sam confirmed. "Silver knife to the heart."

Two fricking Vetala, beasts that Sam and Dean didn't hunt very often. Dean preferred hunting the same stuff, spirits and ghouls and the dumb werewolf pack that lived in the forest who kept mating and then dying under the Winchester blade. But whenever different monsters came to play, it meant more searching, more guessing, and a lot more risk of dying. It was a dangerous job, and there had been many times where Dean thought that one or both of them was going to die. Somehow they always managed to escape, but Dean knew that one day, something on the job would certainly do him in. He could only hope that whatever that turned out to be, it got him before it could get Sam.

"We'll go at moonrise."

While hunting and killing monsters was a rather…fulfilling occupation, it certainly didn't bring home grain for the chickens or bread for the table. During the day, Dean worked as the town blacksmith's apprentice. Bobby Singer was one of the oldest ones in town, a man of over forty years, with a gruff demeanor and an intelligently pessimistic outlook on life. Most people hadn't the time or capacity to think socially, as they were too busy struggling to sustain themselves, but Bobby was a soul of a different realm, a realm in which change was possible and social barriers were broken down. But, of course, he was a body of this realm, a realm in which change was a myth and social barriers were so rigid that the majority of the people didn't even know they existed, because that was just how life _was_.

Dean liked Bobby, maybe because he never failed to make Dean feel a little more versed on the world and maybe because he poured Dean some of his brewed ale whenever they had a break, but he was glad for the companionship. Ninety-five percent of the folks in Norham would have never employed a "pagan worshipper" like Dean, but Bobby didn't seem to care, never mentioning God or church or anything like that, and Dean was immensely appreciative. He had become desensitized to hisses and service refusal because it happened so often. Only Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and Ash at the tavern where Sam worked as a cook, and Rufus the grocer didn't throw them out of their establishments, but that was okay. It wasn't as if Sam and Dean could afford to have wives—not that any fathers were looking to wed their daughters off to a Winchester anytime soon. But they got all they needed just fine.

A few days after Zachariah's funeral procession, Dean was removing the axe he had just shaped from the anvil, placing it in the still tub to cool. Dean didn't necessarily love being a blacksmith, but he definitely could have gotten off worse, and he was actually pretty good at what he did. Many Norham folk lived solely off their land, eating and selling their products or trading them for the goods they needed. With that being the case, the majority of them were starving. Sam and Dean were lucky to make decent wages to enough to buy bread and grain to feed their animals and themselves. And it also didn't hurt that Bobby seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that Dean often forged his own weapons to keep.

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the forge almost unbearable in the summer. With the arrival of the new Duke, Bobby had been commissioned to make about four hundred thousand suits of armor and weapons and plates and other things that for some reason couldn't have been recycled from Zachariah. So there was little talk between Dean and Bobby, as both were so stooped in work that no time could be wasted on idle chat.

"God fucking damn it," Dean cursed to himself when he set his hand down on the anvil by mistake, his palm blistering almost immediately after coming into contact with the blazing hot metal. Fuck, he couldn't be slowed down, not now. There were so many stupid things to make, and if they fell behind, Bobby would be the one to take the heat.

"You're off your game today, Winchester," Bobby noted as he glanced up at Dean dunking his hand in the still tub. "You haven't burned yourself in ages."

"Yeah, well you've been alive for ages," he grumbled, wincing as the cool water bubbled up around his throbbing hand.

Bobby rolled his eyes at Dean's horrible insult. "Well, I can't have you going off and ruining your hand. We're a little swamped, kiddo."

It was Bobby's indirect way of asking Dean if everything was okay with him, which made Dean feel awkward. Everything was…well, it was how it was and always would be, except for maybe a little anxiety over the new Duke, but it was nothing Dean couldn't handle. Nothing he should be burning his hand over, anyway. "It won't happen again," Dean said quietly, wrapping his hand with a strip of cloth before picking up his hammer to show Bobby that he wouldn't slow down production.

"So what's your snide on the new Duke?" Bobby asked, seeming to take the interruption as an invitation of sorts to break their silence.

"Can't say I'm not happy Zach's dead," Dean replied truthfully, cocking a brow at Bobby because sometimes it was freaky how much Bobby could read his mind. "Betcha this new guy's gonna be another frog-faced dickhead—"

"I would be careful about the things I said if I were you, Winchester," drawled a deep, hateful voice from the front of the store, a voice that Dean, unfortunately, could recognize anywhere. "Our new Duke will be arriving tomorrow."

A dark-skinned man had entered the forge quietly, standing beside the door. He was dressed in the red and yellow silks of Norham Castle and was much, much too clean to be unnoticeable. It was Uriel, Zach's right-hand douchebag. Uriel was the deacon, the spokesperson, and the Chief of the Norham Guard; which meant that it was his duty to enforce the taxes and laws over the duchy. He also hated Dean. A lot.

"Oh look, if it isn't my favorite accident," Dean grumbled, teeth clenching together at the very sight of Uriel. "You know, it's cute that you came to visit me at work, but I get off at sundown so try and keep it in your pants till then, alright?"

Uriel let the corners of his lips turn up slightly and lazily blinked his cow eyes to show Dean how amusing he found him. "l could have you hanged," he reminded Dean for the millionth time. "It would be nothing to me."

"Yeah? Well why don't you—"

"What business do you have with us, Chief?" Bobby interrupted before Dean could get himself in trouble. "My apprentice and I are busy making all the crap you ordered, so if you don't mind hurrying up."

"I'm actually here for Winchester," Uriel said, almost as if he were amused. "I have some important information to tell him."

Dean narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms defensively to hide the nervous jolt that ran down his body. Any sort of "news" that Uriel felt the need to personally deliver to Dean couldn't be good. "It's alright, you don't need to tell me, I already know that you actually have a vagina."

Uriel looked bored with Dean, not even bothering to threaten having him killed, moving toward them. Dean gripped his hammer and stepped behind his forge, just in case he decided that he wanted to make some Uriel horseshoes. "Taxes, Winchester," the dark man said, his sinister smile returning. "His Majesty Michael has imposed a heretic tax to be paid to the Church. Effective immediately. Each constituent must collect taxes from the heretics of the duchy, and, as it surmises, we have two known ones right here in Norham."

Dean stared at Uriel for a moment, gripping his hammer in his good hand as he processed the 'news.' A heretic tax. They had to pay money to the Church they insulted via tax. It sounded like a complete load of bullshit to Dean, something cooked up by Uriel just to ensure that he and Sam suffer more. But of course, what could they do about it? It wasn't like they could refuse, because Uriel _would_ have them killed. He only kept them alive because Zachariah had finally realized their use, but now that the bastard was gone, there was no telling. Uriel hadn't the authority, but he was mighty influential up in that castle, and Dean didn't know how the new Duke would listen to him.

"Has His Majesty, now?" Dean managed through gritted teeth.

"Oh yes," Uriel nodded, his cruel smile now mocking. The man peeked inside Dean's still tub at the axe he had just made, and then turned his attention back to Dean. "His Majesty feels that the Lord will forgive his failures as a King of controlling the heathens if the heretics pay penance."

"Of course," Dean nodded solemnly, earning a warning sniff from Bobby that the younger man chose to ignore. "We must _all_ pay penance, for his Royal Highness's failures are so vast."

Uriel lunged forward, catching Dean by surprise as he pinned him to the wall of the forge, his mocking smile replaced with a malicious scowl. Dean could push him off if he wanted, but his senses were already overloaded with Uriel and he could not muster the thought as the dark man breathed down his neck threateningly.

"You think you're so clever, Winchester," he seethed, his face inches away from Dean's as he gripped at his rough collar. "You think that just because you and your brother have been getting away with your pagan worship you can do whatever you want."

"Actually—" Dean began, but was met with a sharp elbow to the stomach. He doubled over, gasping in pain and knowing he'd finally crossed the line that he never seemed to see coming until he had vaulted miles over it.

"Boy, learn some _respect_," hissed Uriel as Dean regained his breath. "In case you haven't realized, Lord Zachariah is dead, and there is nothing keeping you two from the gallows. We will just have to hope that Prince Castiel is wiser in your regard," he said, lifting Dean's head up with his other hand.

As their eyes bored into each other, Dean knew how much he hated him. He hated the stupid, horrible man with every inch and fiber of his body. Had this been any other day, had he not been in Bobby's forge where the man could be held accountable for anything, Dean may have stuck his sword through Uriel's throat.

"Forty pounds a month," Uriel said to Dean, staring him down another several moments before releasing him and straightening out his silks.

Dean held his stance, keeping his head high so that he could pretend that he had some dignity left in him, but it was hard. Forever they had been pushed around by the Guard, insulted and imprisoned and thrown out of the village to scavenge for themselves a mile away. It burned away at his insides to just sit there and take it, but he knew that if he put up a fight they would do something to Sam, because they liked to pick around at Dean and pull his strings to see what made him tick. And that just so happened to be anything involving Sam.

"What?" he gritted, barely even hearing whatever Uriel had said.

"Forty pounds a month," repeated the Chief, allowing his grimace to relax into that same cruel smirk he had sported when he first intruded. "Your tax for being a heretic is forty pounds a month."

Despite all of his efforts to never ever let any of the Guard see that they've ever thrown him, Dean gasped. Forty pounds a month? He had to be joking, he absolutely had to be joking. There was no way anyone in Norham or any other city of the constituency would be able to cough up an extra forty pounds per month, not when everyone was in a deficit. That was more than he and Sam made in two weeks, and all of that went to necessities. They were making do with having a pound or two left over each month for maybe a new scabbard or a cloak. Scrounging together forty pounds was all together impossible.

And by the look of Uriel's smirk, he knew just that. "I will be by at the end of the week to collect from you, Winchester."

Dean's eyes were pits of fury, disbelief, and dread as he stared at Uriel, legs aimlessly walking toward the man, hammer held useless and forgotten in his hand. He suddenly remembered that Bobby was witnessing everything when the older man stepped forward as well, probably as a precaution to try and keep Dean from doing something stupid, but Dean's mind wasn't even in that vein. It was in the vein of a poor man, a poor man who owed money he would never, ever be able to pay.

"I can't pay that," he almost whispered, face breaking from his mask of hardness to a softer, more vulnerable expression that he couldn't even bother trying to hide.

"Then you will be sent to prison as a debtor," Uriel replied snidely, folding his hands together as he turned regally on his heel toward the door of the forge. "And your brother will be enslaved to work in the mines."

Dean watched his back, silently screaming at him to turn back around so that he could….what? Argue the "Michael imposed" heretic tax? Punch him in the jaw? Beg?

No, there was nothing that he could do except stand there, covered in soot and sweat and ten thousand problems as he watched Uriel open the door and release a harsh stream of daylight into the hot room.

"I will be seeing you at the coronation tomorrow, Winchester, Mr. Singer," he said almost ominously with a dark smile playing about his lips, winking once at Dean before he shut the door.

Dean reckoned that they could afford another month of living. They could sell their horses, pigs, chickens, weapons, and all other possessions and also not buy food, and then Uriel would have his forty pounds by the end of the week.

And then he'd find two starving corpses the next time he came around.

Dean knew that that was the whole point, to drive them into either starvation or jail. Of course, they'd pick up and leave Norham before they'd allow any of that to happen, but that was a last resort. Besides, Dean had other means of making money. The other means happening to also be his second-to-last resort.

"Maybe he meant forty shillings," Sam said for the hundredth time the next day as they sat on their horses in the town square, waiting for the new Duke and his procession. The square was jammed with people, some on horses, some on the tops of buildings and shops, and a few dead on the ground. The Guard had a path with about a thirty foot width through town leading up to the iron gates of the castle, where Dean could smell the no doubt delectable feast being cooked all the way from where he sat. He and Sam were positioned as near to the gates as they could be in case some beast showed themselves, swords, crossbows, and silver knives stealthily hidden beneath their cloaks.

"You know he didn't mean forty shillings," Dean said, rolling his eyes as his beautiful black horse, Impala, gave a grunt. Impala could sense that Dean was stressed because she was freakishly in tune with him, and he stroked her mane consolingly. "You see, even Impala thinks you're being dumb."

"I'm not being dumb, Dean," Sam said imploringly. "I'm just trying to find a way to—

"I know what you're trying to do, and I've got it under control," Dean snapped, turning his head toward Sam, aggravated. Didn't Sam get it? There was no way around it other than leaving Norham for good, which they both knew they couldn't. Uriel was going to make life as difficult as possible for them until he finally got them to cave in, so there were no solutions other than giving the bastard what he wanted. And Dean would take care of it, because that's what Dean did.

Sam looked incredulous, almost scoffing. "How? How are you going to come up with forty extra pounds per month?"

"There's a guy who likes the shoes Bobby 'n I make for his horse," Dean said, almost too easily. "He works at the Inn, and he mentioned that they need some help at night and stuff. I was gonna talk to him after this."

Luckily, Sam didn't look suspicious. Unluckily, Sam did look opposing. "What? Dean, you can't work days and nights. When do you sleep? What about hunts?"

Dean sighed, dropping his head to Impala again. Sleep didn't matter, he could do that when he was dead, but their hunting time would be cut drastically if Dean picked up a night job. Sam was capable of doing it on his own, but Dean hated leaving it to that. It was dangerous, first of all, and Dean's main concern over all of this was Sam. But what else could he do?

"I'd only go in every other day," he told Sam. "We'll still have time to gank bitches and stuff, we'll just have to…adjust."

"Dean—" began Sam, but then the crowd instantaneously began to titter and move, noise and activity sweeping across the sea of people. Dean whipped his head to the East, straining his neck to try to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, but he was pretty sure he knew.

Descending the large hill that overlooked the village was a steady stream of people, horses, flags, and wagons. They were too far off to see in detail, but the blue and black flags flapping in the breeze were visible from where Sam and Dean sat, as was the incredible amount of people coming over the hill.

"It's the prince!" some teenaged girl standing by Charger, Sam's dark horse, yelled obviously, and Dean looked at Sam, indicating that their conversation would have to wait. Now it was time to focus.

"Whoa, baby," Dean murmured to Impala, pulling on her reigns as she started clipping her hooves impatiently against the sandy ground. Impala hated being in large crowds, it made her anxious. She always just wanted to run, no matter where they were, and Dean patted her sympathetically. He felt much the same. "Just a little longer, keep your nose out for anything suspicious, okay?" His voice was low and quiet, just enough for Impala to hear.

He scanned the crowd, thankful that most people were on foot. It made it easier to keep his eyes peeled and alert for anything out of the ordinary. Men, women, children, dressed in their wool tunics and dresses, sweating and stinking in the summer heat were all fighting for better views of the procession. A few random pipers were playing, babies were crying, and girls were laughing, and Dean couldn't pick out anything unusual among the Norhamers. But he didn't expect to, either. If there was any sort of trouble afoot, it certainly wouldn't make itself known so blatantly.

By this time the trumpeters were audible over the ruckus, regally sounding across the village as the Prince's first bannermen appeared in the square. The flags they bore were massive, sky blue with two black perpendicular lines intersecting across the width. Astride great horses were men and knights in silks and armor of the same design as the flag, staring forward as if they didn't notice the raucous throng of villagers clamoring for attention.

It was expected that the arrival of the king would be ritzy, but Dean was slightly surprised at just how grand and large the procession was. Gildwich wasn't exactly known for its wealth, and the city of Norham itself was pretty grungy. And yet here they were, royal and majestic as ever as they passed through the square and through the gates of the great stone castle that imprisoned everyone in its shadow.

"Anything look weird to you, aside from their egos?" Dean murmured to Sam, unable to peel his eyes from the continuous movement of people.

"No, but we haven't even seen the Prince yet."

But he spoke to soon, as a collective gasp radiated from the rear side of the square as people began dropping to their knees, bowing their heads only halfway to get a glimpse of their new ruler. Sam and Dean were still too far up to see him, but Dean stuck his hand inside his cloak to grip at the hilt of his sword, because if anything were to happen, it was going to happen soon.

Little by little, the wave of kneeling villagers made their way toward Sam and Dean, the chatter becoming more slurred but just as loud as the Prince made his way through the square. For many of the folk, this was would be the first and last time they ever glimpsed anything royal in person and Dean sighed almost enviously. How easy it must be to not have to break into a heavily armed castle on a weekly basis. Sam and Dean had gotten to know Zachariah pretty well after darting through his stuff so often, and he was certainly not someone who Dean wanted to know.

The Colt pressed tightly into his palm as Dean gripped it harder when the first horizontal line of knights came into view. Blue and black breastplates outfitted among silver, crafty armor shone blindingly in the light, and Dean realized glumly that even after a lifetime of blacksmith worth, he would never, ever be able to craft something so perfect. They were almost frightening to look at, all ominous and deadpan as they sat on their balls and stared straight forward as if they couldn't be bothered by the dirty, gawking villagers. Dean hated knights, partly because they were all dicks and partly because he knew he could be a knight any fucking day of the week.

But behind the line of knights was a man in ornate silver armor, the blue and black symbol of his breast plate larger and more handily crafted than those of the rest of the party. His white horse was massive and magnificent with its silvery mane and golden shoes, shoes which were probably worth two decades of a heresy tax.

It was evident that under his armor that the man was slender, long limbs and fingers filling out the chainmail as he sat ramrod straight on his horse. His face, uncovered by a helmet, was positioned straight forward and wearing the most serious expression Dean had ever seen on a human being. Piercing blue eyes that matched the blue on his chest bore into the space in front of him, positioned above a sloping nose and cutting cheek bones. His hair was dark brown and surprisingly messy for someone who seemed so disciplined, as if his mind had been so focused on everything else that combing his hair fell by the wayside.

"Oh, so handsome," whispered the same girl beside Sam as she bent to her knees, and Dean snapped back to reality, rolling his eyes at her daft observation and resuming his scanning of the crowd.

"Not as frog-faced as ol' Zach," Dean murmured to Sam, who was watching the Prince as he passed through the gates with tight lips. Dean took his silence for agreement and kept his hand on The Colt while the rest of the procession, more knights and squires and carts and horses, entered through the gates of the castle, none even pleasing themselves with a glance at their constituents. What _dicks_, Dean thought with aggravation.

But there didn't seem to be anything waiting to waste the Prince right off, which was sort of a bonus. The night before and early this morning, Sam and Dean had laid salt lines around the castle, running a quick sweep of the interiors and passageways that seemed to dig six hundred feet below ground for any signs of creatures on the prowl, but there was nothing to be found. It was almost worrisome, because something certainly had plans of bathing in the royal's blood, and the fact that the Winchesters had seen absolutely nothing since the two vetala was strange. Either he and Sam were gaining a venerative fear (unlikely), or there was something larger afoot (extremely likely).

The last of long line crossed through the gates and the guard lowered the portcullis with a demeaning slam, and the people all stood, not bothering to wipe the dust from their already filthy rags. A new pinion tune of trumpets sounded out across the square from the castle balcony, and Dean inclined his head, looking up to see Uriel strut out from the interior, a smile that hinted of happiness not at all on his face.

"People of Norham, capital city of the Gildwich territory, constituent of the Holy Novak Empire, please come to your knees to recognize your new Duke," he called across the square, deep voice a booming echo as the crowd grew eerily silent. "Brother of the Holy King, keeper of the Western realm, seventh heir to the throne of the Empire and cardinal of the Catholic church. Prince Castiel."

Once again, everyone dropped to one knee and bowed their heads as the man in silver armor appeared on the balcony, dipping his head when Uriel placed Zachariah's old crown atop his messy hair, and then straightened up like a pike to stare above everyone, taking extra care to allow absolutely no emotion through the stoic hardness of his face.

Dean stared up at the man, waiting for him to wave or speak or do anything other than cast his glare above the crowd. Even the most harsh and hateful of rulers would acknowledge his constituents. But not Prince Castiel.

"Wow," muttered Sam beside him, his face tilted upward to study the man. "He doesn't look too happy."

Happy was the farthest thing from the aura that this man was radiating. "Wonder what he's got shoved up his ass."


	2. The Swing

It was a frigid night in the middle of winter, Impala's worn down shoes leaving deep footprints in the deep snow. The horse whinnied softly in discomfort, her hooves and legs so wet and freezing that Dean wondered how much longer the poor girl would even make it.

He had sold his own wool cloak a few days prior to bring home a stale loaf of bread, which he and Sam could do nothing better than devour, so all he had wrapped around him was his the cloak of his father, not a month dead yet, over his own worn clothes, his tunic and knickers in need of a great mend. But Dean's hollow stomach, howling so loudly that his bones positively rattled, was what prompted him forward toward the building with warm light glowing through the frosted windows.

The warmth was almost overwhelming as Dean stepped inside, bombarded by a cacophony of noise and, more importantly, the smell of something meaty and juicy wafting through the airs and invading every single sensation in his body.

It was a large room, cut in half by a bar where serving men and ladies stood chatting with the patrons. The front half was filled with tables and men, piled high with plates of food and fully consumed drinks. The men laughed and argued drunkenly, slopping their ale down their tunics and beards as the wenches refilled them on hand. On the other side of the bar, a curtain was drawn lazily as if to conceal the happenings behind it, but Dean could see naked bodies writhing around each other on the straw mattresses through the cracks. Dim candles left large shadows splayed about the stone wall, shadows of people inside other people as they fucked. It all reeked of drunken sweat, bodily fluids, and beer, but Dean could still smell the delectable steam of tonight's meal as if it were the only smell in the world.

He found himself at the edge of half occupied table, claw-like hands grappling for the half eaten plate of lamb and bread. Without even realizing what he was doing, Dean shoved the food in his mouth. Even cold, the leg of lamb was perhaps the most delicious thing Dean had ever put on his tongue, and he grunted aloud pitifully, torn between savoring the taste and swallowing the rest of it in one go.

"Hey!"

It took Dean several more seconds of relishing to realize that the gruff call had been directed toward him.

"What do you think you're doing, gudgeon?" grunted a tall man with a full beard as he stomped over to Dean, yanking back his head. "You think you can mooch off me, do ya? Eat my food and expect not to pay, huh?" he gritted in Dean' face, fowl breath assaulting his nose from behind even fouler teeth. His beetle-black eyes were scrunched into tight lines as he tightened his grip on Dean's head, but the Winchester was so starving and bristled by the first taste of food he'd had in days that he couldn't even find it in him to be afraid.

"I could give you some soap, but I don't think that'd help much either," Dean muttered, allowing his lips to quirk into an automatically mocking smile. He really didn't give a fuck at this point if this guy beat him to a pulp; so long as he got his stomach to settle…

"What did you just say, boy?" The man pulled Dean's head back tighter, spinning him around so that Dean was pressed up against the wall, one huge hand in his hair and another on his neck. _Fuck,_ thought Dean, not pressed to break the eye contact he was maintaining with the guy. This really wasn't what he needed right now, he definitely couldn't fight. Not with so little energy left in his rapidly thinning body.

"You need an ear trumpet, too?" Dean managed back, his cocky tone completely betraying how absolutely listless and trapped he felt. But that was how Dean did it, wasn't it? All snark and quips until he was just a splatter on the ground? Ah well, better a splatter than skin and bones. Living wasn't even important anymore.

And so he barely felt the fist crunch against his cheek, the crack of bone on bone reverberating loudly in his ear. It was just another ill of his body, no big deal. He wanted more, more punches, more pain. The image of the room had already begun swimming in the mixture of smells, warmth, and adrenaline that should have been spiked but was suppressed by the emptiness of his stomach. Maybe they would bring his body back to Sam—then the kid would have food for the rest of the winter.

Dean blearily blinked back at the man, who had attracted a rather large and loud crowd of people, and willed his own arm to move, unsurprised and not even worried when his own body mustered no response. Let the man take another swing, it didn't really matter. Dean was so over trying to be strong, so finished with putting on a brave face, this would almost be a relief.

But before the man could do anything but ready his arm, the crowd was pushed apart and the man was pulled away from Dean, and he slumped back against the wall at the lack of pressure holding him up. His vision was still swimming, but he could see that someone new was now hovering over him, someone shorter and less hairy than the previous purveyor, and Dean assumed it was the owner of the joint coming over to kick him out.

"Easy, boys, easy," said the new guy to the angry but abated crowd as put his hands on Dean's shoulders, forcing him to stand up straight. "You could have just assaulted a new customer."

He could feel his eye begin to swell, but Dean tried as best as he could to regain his composure and look properly at the new one's face. He didn't need or want this guy's help, he was perfectly capable of fighting back for himself. Or maybe he wasn't at the moment, but he was perfectly capable of deciding to not fight back for himself. It was stupid and pussy to have some dude come over and save you because you got yourself in a bar spat, especially when you were caught stealing. Dean wasn't some little maiden who needed rescuing.

"Wha's your name, son?" asked the man with his drawling voice as he studied Dean's face carefully, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulders. He was shorter than Dean was, a bit thickset around the middle with bulgy eyes and dark hair. There was a slightly sinister look about his face, something dark in his eyes or his smirk or whatever that gave Dean a bad feeling, but everything was all bad feelings, wasn't it?

"Depends on who's asking," Dean answered quickly, already wary of the creepyish guy. If he wasn't going to get beat up by some sasquatch of a man tonight, he may as well go the opposite and keep his cool. _Don't give anyone any satisfaction,_ he thought back to his father.

But the guy merely smirked deeper, sniffing a laugh before pulling on Dean and bringing him into a walking motion, reaching up to hang an arm around Dean's shoulders as he led them to the bar. He could have stopped him if he wanted to, but Dean was interested to see where the conversation was going, so he dragged his feet heavily alongside the man, keeping his eyes narrowed and scrutinizing the entire time.

"Hungry?" he asked, gesturing for Dean to sit down at an empty stool, seating himself on the one beside it. "You look like you could use a good meal." The dark-haired man waved a serving wench over and then pointed his finger toward the kitchen.

The last time Dean'd had a warm meal he didn't know, but he sure as hell wanted one now. More than anything, really. So whatever this guy's deal was Dean didn't care, especially when the lady returned to the bar, bearing a plate piled high with roasted potatoes, a full leg of lamb, and a loaf of bread and cheese.

It was probably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, and it tasted like Heaven itself had prepared the dish. Dean didn't give a shit that the smarmy man smiled smugly as he watched him devour the plate, animalistic grunts escaping him as he tore meat from bone. The warmth was already returning to his bones and cheeks while his body greedily sucked up every drop of nutrition Dean poured into it, and he certainly could have eaten four more plates, but he stopped halfway through.

Ah, fuck, he had a little brother to take care of, didn't he? A twelve-year-old hungry little brother who was probably shivering alone by the fire right now or trying to rustle up some dinner of his own with the mice they had caught earlier. And though he could certainly be selfish at times, there was no way he could eat this whole thing himself while he left Sammy to feast on rats. So it was with much sadness that Dean pulled out his handkerchief and dropped the second half of the bread, potatoes, and lamb in the center and wrapped it up tight, tucking it back in is cloak to keep warm.

"Lose your appetite?" asked the guy, brows slightly raised. Dean had almost forgotten that he was being watched, but now that his brain had a little food to work with, he felt like he could actually cognitively function for a spell again. He remembered why he had ventured from the house in the first place now, why he had chosen this place of all places to take his starving self, and it hadn't been for food originally.

Right. He had come here for a specific reason.

"Nah, I've got a dragon of a brother to feed, too," Dean said, raising his chin a little to try and muster as much dignity as he could fake. He fell pretty short, though, with his bloody cheek and swollen eye.

"You're a little young to be taking care of your brother, aren't you?" he said intriguingly. "How old are you, son?"

"Sixteen, and I'm not your son," Dean said coldly. And he was wrong. Many sixteen-year-olds had children of their own.

The man seemed amused, however, by Dean's lashing out. "Your father dead?"

"Guess so."

He smiled again and reached forward, cupping Dean's chin in one hand as he stroked his cheek with the other. Dean allowed him to examine his face, balling his hands into fists to keep himself from jerking away because they both knew why Dean was here now. "Beautiful," the man whispered, almost to himself, as he gently turned Dean's from one side to the other, running a warm finger down the jut of his jawline and the curve of his lips. "What's your name?"

Dean felt that this was a good opportunity to pull away from the touch, straightening his back out to betray the lack of confidence he had in himself at the moment. "Robert Plant," he said evenly, pressing his lips together.

"Nice to meet you, Robert. You can call me Crowley," the guy said with a smile that would have been warm on any other person as he thrust his hand out.

Dean reached to meet it but said no more, dropping his eyes as Crowley continued stare at him as if he were a piece of meat with his ugly, bulgy eyes. It was like he was deciding whether Dean was a good purchase or not or something, and if Dean weren't so desperate and pathetic right now, he would have made a snide comment.

"My guess is you didn't come in here to pick a fight with a couple of trolls," Crowley said finally, and Dean's shoulders stiffened before they sagged. No, he hadn't. His empty pockets and emptier stomach had pulled him into the building with a direct purpose; to ensure that Dean find a way to fill them both. He knew what he had to do, they both did. And, judging by the fucking creepy way Crowley was looking at Dean, there would be business.

"I need work," Dean said quietly, trying his very hardest to meet Crowley's gaze with dignity.

"Can't get a job in town?" Crowley asked, brow cocked as his lips remained quirked in his superior smile, and Dean could feel the heat rising in him once again. They both knew that if Dean could find work anywhere else he wouldn't be here, asking for work in a fucking brothel. It was the _last_ thing Dean had ever seen himself going, but times were desperate. And it pissed him the fuck off that Crowley could fucking understand that but insisted in pressing Dean further and further.

"Think I'd be ready to whore myself out if I could?" Dean replied between gritted teeth, hands balling into fists. "No one else will fucking hire a—" Fuck. Dean couldn't say 'heathen,' because then Crowley might realize who he was and send him out the door. "A bastard."

The man looked over Dean once again, those eyes panning all up and down Dean's body once again, and Dean silently thanked the gods that he was wearing John's heavy furs because they gave bulk to his skinny, malnourished body. "A bastard, you say? Daddy ruined you as a prospect, did he?"

Again, Dean made no attempt to answer, simply staring at Crowley without much expression, the mere fact that he was begging to work as a whore sending burning shame throughout his body. Why the hell couldn't Crowley just cut the bullshit and hire him already. The sadistic pleasure he must certainly be deriving from Dean's embarrassment must get him off or something, because that fucking smirk never left his lips as he continued to examine Dean. He decided already that he absolutely despised this man.

"Well, Robert, I've got room for bastards," Crowley said like he had just given Dean the world. Which, if Dean were to be completely honest with himself, he had. "Even cheeky little bastards like you."

And so had begun Dean's life as a whore in the village brothel. Wayward knights, disgruntled husbands, and sometimes even the stray squire all seemed to like Dean because he had girlish lips and thick eyelashes, and they liked to fuck him from behind, spitting disparaging filth into his ears as they rammed in and out of him. It had been tough at the beginning; trying to fight back the tears that brimmed from his eyes at the searing pain, but as with anything, he grew used to it. But he was getting paid, not much, but enough to bring home a loaf of bread and a hunk of scrap meat most days for he and Sam to survive on.

The building was much the same as it had been all those years ago as Impala carried Dean forward. There was no snow or icy frost garnishing the stone, but it struck Dean's vision with an aching familiarity that sent a displeasing chill down his spine. He hated that building, hated everything that went on inside and that he took with him when he emerged. Trading self-worth for a few shillings and a piece of silver.

But this time, Dean rode tall. He wasn't a starving sixteen-year-old any longer, he was a man who had seen and done more things than most of the world could dream to boast. There was no need to feign confidence and assurance; he would command respect.

Or so he hoped.

Dean kept the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face as he walked inside the brothel, paying no attention to the attention his arrival brought from the patrons. The first time he had entered this building, he had been afraid and desperate, unsure of whether he really wanted to live or die. While he was still desperate, Dean knew how to handle himself now and was smart enough to approach his desperation strategically. Or he could pretend. Much the same, really.

His boots thunked against the floor all the way to the bar, which, thankfully, was being tended by an unfamiliar face. The more anonymous Dean could be the better. Although how long could he retain that? Unless the sky opened up and swallowed every shrunken Novak dick from the planet, Dean expected that he would need to hold onto this job for quite some time. Until the people started realizing that the only reason they were alive was because Sam and Dean prevented them from being killed and paid them for it. So yeah, forever.

"What can I getcha, mate?" asked the fat barman in a gravelly voice, tilting his head obviously to try and glimpse Dean's face under his hood.

"I need to talk to Crowley," he replied in a low voice, ducking his head slightly to prevent the barman from seeing his goods.

Although he couldn't properly catch the dude's reaction, Dean assumed he was being gawked at, because there was an alcohol breath-filled silence before the barman sniffed. "And I need new teeth, mate, but that ain't happenin' either," he croaked, and Dean rolled his eyes to himself.

"Go tell him Robert Plant is here. You can bet your dirty ass that Crowley's interested in talking to me, slim," Dean replied quickly, his voice cutting. There was no time for ass hat barmen to delayed the business that he just wanted to end. Or he had no patience for them, anyway.

After several more ugly gawking moments, the guy finally bumbled away to go retrieve Crowley, and Dean pulled his hood down further, only the seat of the barstool next to him visible when a stout body took a place there.

"Back again, are we, Dean? Your horse lose a race?"

That voice, the fucking voice that Dean wanted to erase from existence sent his blood into a quickened rage. It was so snide, so full of condescending reproach and superiority and he almost hated it more than the man it belonged to. Almost.

Lifting his head, Dean stared at the man beside him, his hood leaving a triangular slit of ugly, smarmy bastard in full view. He was much the same as well, thinning black hair and blacker eyes smashed into a pancake face that was twisted into a smirk that never seemed to falter. If anything, he was looking extra smug today, keen on making Dean feel like a piece of desperate trash. And maybe it was working but Dean sure as hell wasn't gonna let the fucker see. He was older now and he didn't have to take his shit. Not all of it, anyway.

"Nah, I just came back to see your pretty face, but I can tell you now, it wasn't worth it," Dean fired back quickly, certain that Crowley could feel the heat of his glare by the way his smirk grew more pronounced, amused that Dean was already so defensive because the bastard got off to that type of shit.

"I see you've still got that charming sense of humor, Dean," Crowley noted. "Though you've grown up a bit, I can see. My my, look at you," he said, sending Dean a vomit-inducing smile. "You've got some muscle on you, boy. I betcha that little cock of yours has come in quite nicely, too…"

"Stow the bullshit, Crowley," Dean barked, glad that his hood was covering the angry flush in his cheeks. If Dean could kill any one single person in the world, it would be Crowley. No, it would be Uriel, but Crowley was only safe because he _did_ help Dean earn money, but if it weren't for that fact, Crowley's head on a pike would be his first priority. "I don't wanna deal with your crap."

The mushy skin on Crowley's forehead wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows at Dean. "You came in here, boy," he reminded Dean shortly. "If you're here asking for my time, you will show me some proper courtesy."

Dean grit his teeth, biting back an insult before it could escape his lips. Damn it, the fucker would always be in an upper hand position over Dean, unless a wraith was after his ass, in which case Dean would just let the beast get him. But the Winchester could never fucking win here, could he? Crowley was his superior, richer and higher than he would ever be and exercising control over Dean's life.

Because there was no escape, apparently. Dean had thought that an apprenticeship with the town blacksmith would be his ticket to freedom, a way to leave this life and become an actual person again. And it had worked for a few years. Life was always rough for everyone, but Dean had done pretty damn good for himself given the circumstances. But as always, shit happened and here he was, in the very position the man across from him swore he would find himself.

Fuck him.

"You need to give me a job," Dean finally managed, too prideful to stomach an apology.

"I don't need to do anything, Winchester," Crowley said, crossing his arms. "I have everything I need."

"_I_ need you to give me a job," Dean grudgingly corrected, hating to ever admit that out loud even though they both knew it. The fucker just liked to hear Dean express weakness, because he smirked at Dean's revision, a positively grimy smile working its way around his face.

"Do you now? You not gettin' your kicks as a blacksmith, eh?" he chuckled once, eyes still studying Dean with that hungry stare.

"Sammy and I got money issues," Dean said curtly, not bothering to skate around anything any longer. "King Never Gets Laid put out some ass tax that I gotta pay."

Crowley looked mildly interested for a moment, but seemed to decide that asking wasn't worth his time. Oh no, not when there were still more insulting things to spit and wisecracks to make. "So you expect me to just let you work for me again, after you so graciously stormed out last time?" he said sardonically, pulling his crossed arms tighter into his barrel chest. "Is that what you expect?"

God fucking dammit, Dean wanted to explode. They both knew that Crowley would be glad to have Dean back, because he had been one of Crowley's top earners. He had even been one of Crowley's "nightly specials," leased out to some of the higher-end clients who booked an upstairs room and got to spend the whole night getting their fills. If he hadn't been here under such shitty circumstances, it may have been an ego-boost, because Dean knew he was a favorite among the customers. Except it wasn't an ego-boost so much as a dreadful personality revelation that he was a good bitch.

So the fact that Crowley was even pulling this shit was ridiculous and an exercise in wastefulness. He was beyond excited that his best bitch was back to play and was having fun milking it. "What do you want from me?" he responded coldly, pulling his hood completely down. "I'm asking for a job that I know you want to give me. Do you expect me to apologize or beg or something? Because that ain't about to happen."

His voice was steady and hard to match his glare, boring into Crowley's face. It was going to go his way this time. He was a man now, a man who could stand up for himself and demand what he was worth. There would be none of Crowley's bullshit or trickery, because Dean was smarter, now. Smarter and stronger and less likely to fool.

And Crowley seemed to accept that…to an extent. The fucking smirk was still in place, but he inclined his head slightly, almost amused at what Dean was bringing to the table. Amused was better than angry, so he supposed he had to take it. "All grown up now, are we, Dean? How cute," he chuckled, and then closed his eyes for a moment. "Alright, you've caught me. I do want you back," he said, opening them once again to survey Dean. "I still think you're a cheeky bastard, but you bring in a lot if business. And," he added, smarmy expression deepening, "you'll probably bring in more now that you've grown into yourself."

The way Crowley said it, like Dean was a tool used to attract customers, made his stomach clench. His absence had made him forget exactly how dehumanizing this business was, how little and worthless one became when they whored themselves out. In Crowley's eyes, Dean wasn't a person so much as an item; a shiny, pretty item for him to display and wave around in order to earn himself a profit. What little cut of the cash Dean earned from the fuckton that he brought in was not even worth the emotional ride on top of everything else, but he was desperate. Fucking desperate as hell to keep up with Uriel's fucktastic way of kicking him in the ass. And, as keen as he was to forget about it, Dean knew he was good at this.

"I get a third of it," Dean said firmly, not responding to Crowley's condescension. "A third of all that I get you is mine."

That seemed to catch the brute's attention, as he raised his brow once again. "That's not for you to deci—"

"Fuck that, I'm not just another whore," Dean spat at him, unable to contain his rage any longer. "I'm not some stupid teenager who needs a few pieces of gold to bring home to his baby brother. I'm not one of _them_," he seethed, thrusting his arm out to indicate the other whores that were writhing and moaning on the ground behind the curtain. "I don't just let people shove themselves inside me and call it a job. I give them what they want, do what they like and let them _fuck_ me."

The words were spilling out of him, but he didn't care. It was obvious that he had given this some thought, but he didn't care if Crowley knew that right now. Because the fucker needed to realize exactly _how_ good at this Dean was. He wasn't like the other prostitutes. They just laid on their stomachs or backs and took whatever cock was shoved into them like every other fuck and gave it no thought. Let them thrust in and out a few times until they came and then waited for their next client. They didn't feel their partner out, respond to his rhythm and figure out what he liked. No matter who it was, Dean could give anyone a great and memorable fuck simply because he chose to be a partner rather than a hole. He could fit himself around anybody and engage them and keep it hot and get them going so good that they were both moaning at the end. And that took skill.

"I fucking deserve a third."

Crowley stared at him through narrow eyes for several moments before folding his hand on the counter before them. His composure never faltered for even a moment, and it made Dean feel erratic, boisterous as his heart and breath pounded in his ears. Goddamn, here he was trying to prove his maturity and then going off and getting worked up again. In regular Winchester fashion, of course. Why couldn't he have been born without a temper.

"Fine, then. One third," Crowley said evenly, and Dean thought he had heard wrong for a moment. But the man just looked at him seriously and held his gaze, and Dean gave his damnest to return it. "Welcome back, Robert Plant."

"Hand me the torch."

"I've got it, you get the door."

"No way, give me the torch and you get the door."

There was trouble afoot. Sam had been doing his usual sweep of the castle boundaries when he found a pile of gelatinous gunk that had turned out to be the shed carcass of a shapeshifter near the rear courtyard, which was fucking fantastic because there just so happened to be about nine thousand people who could be the shifter inside. To identify the shifter, they had to wave a flame below its face to see whether its eyes flared or not, which meant coming in close contact with people. Which meant knocking out two guards and dressing in their clothes and prowling about the castle trying not to look suspicious while waving fire in everyone's faces.

They had been in the castle for over an hour now with no sign of the bastard, and Dean was growing anxious. The fucking castle just had so many damn people that it could take centuries to test every single person. And so far, the guards and servants they had surveyed had been lowly waifs and halfwits that were only allowed to work in the outer portion of the castle, and Dean figured anyway that, if the shifter was after the Duke, he would be someone of higher importance, like a knight or a personal guard or a Uriel. He was really hoping it was Uriel just so he could see how the fucker would look when Dean killed him.

"Dean, hand me the torch," repeated Sam as they stood outside of a door that led to a private corridor which housed a lot of the family heirlooms. Although Dean doubted it, Sam had insisted they check back here in the case that the shifter was after Novak gold rather than Novak blood. The door was locked pretty good as displayed by the frustration in Sam's voice as he demanded that Dean take over. "You get the lock, I'll keep watch."

"What are you, a cripple?" he grumbled, shoving the torch into Sam's hands as he began working at the lock. It was such a waste of time to be checking here anyway, and it was hell to be standing so still and exposed for such an amount of time.

"Shove it, Dean," snapped Sam as he turned his back to keep watch along the landing. "If you'd have just been with me in the first place then we'd have probably gotten the shifter before he even broken in."

Dean pressed his lips together to keep from snapping back at Sam. His brother had been short and touchy with him for the last two weeks, since he'd resumed his work for Crowley. While Dean got fucked, Sam was left alone for several days of the week to do the village and castle checks, which probably sucked. Not as bad as it sucked to get pounded in the ass by some boil-ridden butcher who got off to hair pulling and drawing blood, but Dean imagined that the work was tough. Also, Sam was going off about how Dean was losing sleep or working too much or not letting him help or yadda yadda whatever. There was no way he would let Sam in on it all, because he should never have to know what it felt like to be used like that.

"I'm sorry that I wasn't here, I was a little busy making sure that we don't get sent to debtor's prison," he said between grit teeth.

He could practically feel the expression on Sam's face as his brother whipped around. "Maybe if you'd let me do something then we—"

"Shut up, I got the door," he interrupted, glad for the distraction so they didn't have to talk about this again. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, indicating that it had been closed for some time and confirming Dean's supposition that the shifter wasn't after a few goblets and ugly oil paintings of the family. "Hear that? No shifter's been here. Now—"

"What do you think you two are doing?" came an accusatory voice from behind them.

_Fuck_. He quickly snapped his body around to see a tall, dark-haired guard with a drawn sword facing them. God damn, why the fuck hadn't Sam just kept his shit and played lookout like he was supposed to?

"We thought we heard an intruder in the corridor, sir," Sam said quickly, lowering his torch and standing beside Dean. "We were going to make sure that no one was stealing anything."

The guy kept his surreptitious sneer balanced on them both. He really looked like he definitely believed Sam's shaky lie, as displayed by the way he positioned his sword an inch away from Dean's face. His heart pounded in his ears when he heard the echo of footsteps coming down the hallway to join their little party, especially when the last voice he ever wanted to hear boomed through the cavernous stone.

"I assure you, your majesty, I have taken the entire guard and given them the explicit instruct—" Uriel stopped in the middle of his sentence when he rounded the corner to see Sam and Dean pinned against the wall. Dean could see his face process the sight and then sink into his snaky grimace, as if his microdick had suddenly grown to normal size or something. The guard who was holding them against the wall seemed pleased with the fortuitous turn of events, and held his head higher as he pressed his sword closer to Dean.

"Motherfuck," Dean breathed between grit teeth.

Because the one accompanying Uriel was none other than the Duke Castiel himself, dressed in the blue and black that seemed to have taken over the town. The expression on his face could be classified as a mixture between startled, curious, and offended as he examined Sam and Dean being held at sword point by another guard.

Fuck. This was going to be a tough one to get out of, especially because he knew Uriel would cut them no breaks. He had probably already littered the Prince with false tales of their heresy and anti-Catholic practices, painting them to be some sort of bible-burning pagan worshippers who snacked on children and had ravenous sex all night long. Well, Dean _did_ have ravenous sex all night long, but that was completely unrelated. The fact of the matter was they were in some pretty deep shit.

"My, my, my," drawled Uriel, coming up to stand beside the sneering guard to look down his nose at Sam and Dean. "If it isn't my two favorite hell bound heathens. What brings the displeasure of your demonic presence today?"

"They were breaking into the corridor," answered the guard in his gritty voice, glaring at the two brothers. "Said they thought they heard 'an intruder.'''

"Uriel, why don't you and your hemorrhoids go find someone else to bother," Dean spat, knowing full well that nothing he said would get them out of here. "Sam and I are busy trying to save your asses, thank you."

That only seemed to amuse Uriel, as he drew his sword to hold under Sam's nose as well. "Very clever, Dean. But I would watch what I was saying, if I were you. The matter of execution is still undecided."

"What is going on?"

All eyes turned on the Prince, who everyone had seemed to momentarily forget about. He was standing beside Uriel, his gaze penchant gaze traveling back and forth between the boys and their captors, as if he didn't know who to trust. From this close of range, Dean could see that his stony face was even more serious than he had previously thought, if that was even possible.

"I beg your pardon, your majesty," Uriel said quickly, bidding the Prince a small bow without lowering his sword. "But these two criminals are not guardsmen. They are the two sacrilegious cretins I warned you about, the ones who live in the squalor and dung outside of town," he told him, shooting Sam and Dean a hateful glance. "They have come to spread their pagan curses about the castle."

Dean was over the fence. Uriel fucking knew what Sam and Dean were really here to do—he had fucking seen them take out monsters with his own two eyes. Hell, if it weren't for them, he would probably be dead forty times over and getting fucked in the ass by Satan. But he continued to play this stupid card, like the Winchesters were no better than street urchins and thieves sneaking into the castle to sell Novak crap on the black market. "You know that's not—"

"Dean,' cut Sam warningly, not moving his head. He knew his brother would only get them in more trouble if he continued. "Your majesty, if you would allow my brother and I moments to explain ourselves, I'm sure that you wou—"

"Enough!" interrupted Uriel, stabbing his blade dangerously close to Sam's eye, and Dean was ready to pounce. If the bastard fucking touched his brother, it would certainly be the last thing he did, even if it meant life in the dungeons. "Your highness, we will gladly escort these two down to the dungeons while we find a proper punishment for the—"

But as Uriel was talking, Sam's torch flicked upwards as he jerked back in response to Uriel's sword. The tip of the flames licked near Dean's face, illuminating the eyes of the guard who held him captive. In the light, they flashed, flashed a white and silver color that washed over the pupils. An inhuman color.

"Sam, the shifter!" Dean yelled, not hesitating to lift his leg and kick the bastard in the chest, sending him straight to his back as his sword flew away. The man lunged forward, whipping the silver knife from his breast pocket, and sent the blade through the shifter's chest before the creature could even blink.

He was dead, his silvery eyes staring lifelessly from the body of the guardsman he was impersonating as blood seeped from the blue tunic of his uniform. Fricking shapeshifter, he had been there the entire time, keen on getting Sam and Dean caught and out of the way so he could go get himself some royal blood. Smart fucker, he had to admit.

But then there were two hands at his shoulders, pulling him away from the dead shifter and pushing him to the ground. Uriel was looming over him with his sword at Dean's throat, holding him to the floor with a boot on his chest and a vilified expression contorting his ugly face.

"You have just murdered one of my men!" he roared, pressing down on Dean's chest harder. "You think you can just kill members of the Royal Guard and get away with it, boy? Do you!?"

Dean gagged, breath compressed by Uriel's heavy boot. His knife was still stuck on the shifter's chest, so he was weaponless, unable to even talk with Uriel on his body. But didn't he see? Didn't he see that the shifter's eyes were inhuman, that he was lying there with _silver fucking irises?_

"Uriel, get off!" Sam yelled, pushing the dark man to the side. He quickly grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him up, brandishing his sword at Uriel. "We just saved you all!

The man looked floored, abject rage falling across his face as he stared between the boys, unsure of who to first execute. "_Saved _us?" he seethed. "By killing a guardsman? Boy, you have earned yourself a pike for your own head!"

Dean's cheeks were positively scarlet. "He was a shapeshifter!" he yelled, able to hear the thunder in his own voice echo off the walls. "Look at him, you motherfucking piece of trash, look at his eyes!"

Though he may have thought it initially impossible, Uriel's outrage worsened, and he stepped up to Sam's sword, clinking his own steel against it in a harsh warning. "There you go again with your pagan devil nonsense! This is a holy castle, and neither the Prince nor I wil stand for your—"

"Silence!" ordered the Prince suddenly. His hard voice had not risen much in volume, but the intensity it carried was cutting enough for even Dean to bite back the slew of hatefulness he had ready to spit at Uriel. He stood between the two parties, using his sword to break the connection between Sam and Uriel's blades. Dean was frozen, his entire body swallowed in an icy hot bath of adrenaline and fear.

The Duke looked back and forth between the Winchesters and Uriel again, holding his head up in a dignified sort of way that spoke volumes about his family. He had a less pompous and asshole air about him than Zachariah had, as if he were not as keen on exercising his control as his brother. The power rested in the carefully stony expression he wore on his face, one hundred percent professional.

"What did you call my guardsman, Mr. Winchester?" the Duke asked Dean in a cold voice, turning his startlingly blue eyes fully on the man. Dean found himself unnerved by the severity of the gaze, but locked his own eyes on the Prince's anyway.

"He's a shapeshifter, your royal majesty," he said shortly, narrowing his eyes as almost a challenge to the Duke. This was their coming out, he supposed. If Prince Castiel had half of a brain, he would listen to the Winchesters and realize that they weren't the bad guys here. Zachariah had kept them around, and Zach was the stuffiest idiot Dean had ever met, so he had hopes for Castiel. But if he deemed them "heathens," or whatever the fuck had been drilled into his head, they were done. They were all done. The Wichesters would be killed, Castiel would be killed, and when they ran out of brothers to put on the throne, it would go to Uriel, and then the whole of Gildwich would starve to death.

Castiel didn't indicate whether he believed them or not by any virtue of expression or even posture change. He simply kept his eyes drilled into Dean's. "Why are you so sure?"

Dean met his gaze once again. "His eyes. Look at them."

Another few seconds of the stare down passed before Castiel finally broke away and turned toward the dead shifter. His eyes were half closed, but there was a clear silvery sheen covering the exposed portion of the irises. The Prince examined him for several moments, his expression still unreadable, and Dean watched him carefully, if only to keep from having to look at Uriel.

"There are a lot of things out there, your Highness," said Sam from beside Dean. He had the voice on that indicated that he was trying to build bridges, which was always scary. He wasn't as good of a diplomat as he thought. "A lot of things like shapeshifters who are constantly at war with each other to kill you. My brother and I hunt these things before they can."

Castiel straightened up then, turning his attention toward Sam. Another moment of enigmatic staring passed between them, and Dean thought he might yell at the Prince, demanding to know whether or not he found them to be liars or what. "Why?"

"Because they have some contest or prophecy or incentive to kill royal blood, and almost all murders of your fami—"

"No," interrupted the Prince, shaking his head once. "Why do you stop them?"

At that, Sam opened his mouth, but closed it after a few wordless seconds passed. He looked to Dean, who was staring at the Prince in confusion. Why did he care why Sam and Dean stopped them? He was waking up each morning in his massive featherbed to scores and scores of servants and wealth. What did it matter to a Novak prince why two rag tag, pagan worshipping brothers were out there risking their necks to make sure he did? Not one Prince had ever thanked a Winchester, and Dean refused to believe that Castiel would be an exception, the only one to ever consider them as more than peasants.

"Because we don't like these sonofabitches thinking they can get the better of us," answered Dean. "They get mighty cocky, and if they got you, they'd start coming after others," he said, crossing his arms and pursing his lips.

"No, they're pagans, my lord," Uriel insisted as Castiel examined Dean again. "They're hut is full of demonic artifacts and sigils. Why, even their father was dragged to Hell by the Devil's hounds."

Dean kept his glare forward. "Just look at his eyes," he repeated, balling his hands into fists.

If the Prince was at a loss of who to believe, he certainly did not show it, because he made no change at all to the collectedly hard expression on his face as he looked back at the shifter. Dean didn't know whether he should expect to be hauled down to the dungeons or given a spot on the Guard.

Finally, Castiel turned back to Uriel, his face set. "Escort the brothers outside and give them back their knife," he told him with the same tone he had used to initially silence them. "And clean up the body."

Dean thought he had heard wrong initially, but when Uriel's face became aghast, he felt his heart triumph with relief. "But, my lord, they worship the De—"

"They saved my life, Uriel," cut the Prince harshly, sheathing his sword. "I am not having two men hanged after such a deed. Now do as you're told."

Without another glance at Sam or Dean, the Prince turned on his heel and strolled away, his blue and black cloak billowing behind him, leaving a smug Sam and Dean alone with a crestfallen Uriel and dead shapeshifter.

_Fuck you, Uriel._


End file.
